


one sunny mornin' we'll rise

by paxlux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2161926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I am <i>allowing</i> you to drive, Sam.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	one sunny mornin' we'll rise

**Author's Note:**

> Early days in Supernatural, S1 or S2. This is a one time deal, a sort of Haley's Comet or something, you won't see its like again. Written very quickly, I do so apologize.

The road shimmer-shakes, there’s a haze to the day, probably because it’s summer and humid in Nebraska. It’s like a baking line of black oil, waiting to catch the tires of the Impala, so Dean puts his foot down, urges the car faster, they’re just passing through.

Sam leans against the window, staring out at the fields, finger tucked into a book he was reading and Dean wants to smack him, say, Read to me, bitch, but he doesn’t, doesn’t feel like it.

They’re fighting or something, Sam got all huffy after the last hunt, Dean still isn’t sure why. Sure, he got thrown against a wall and hit his head against the cast-iron gate; sure, it hurt like hell and he still has a headache piercing behind his eyes; sure, it’s possible he shouldn’t be driving and Sam should; sure, it’s very likely he bled all down his neck and into his jacket and Sam screamed at him for a long time, and not to keep him from falling asleep during a concussion.

Sam sighs, like Sam always does, this big heavy thing, weight of the world and all that shit, and Dean shakes his head, which is a mistake, the road shakes more now, the haze getting a little darker.

“Pull over,” Sam orders and bullshit, Sam doesn’t _order_ Dean to do anything, “I said pull the fuck over,” okay, all right, Dean’s slowing down (the road slows down too, thank you thank you thank you), they’re slow, they’re on the side of the road, they’re stopped.

“Happy now?” Dean mutters and Sam glares at him. 

“No, I’m not happy.”

“There’s just no pleasing you, Sam.”

“Shut the hell up, Dean, you pull this shit all the time and I’m not—“

“What, you’re not what, not going to put up with it any more? Can’t take my shit, you just gonna leave?”

He spits it out and the words hit Sam, he moves like he’s been punched, which Dean didn’t intend, or maybe he did, he’s wavering between downright angry and merely heated, like the road. 

“Okay, first off, drop that piece of shit argument. You pull that card all the time and yeah, I’m _tired_ of that shit. Secondly, and do I need to speak slowly,” Sam over-enunciates, with his hands even, impressive, “you have a concussion, Dean.”

“Not my first. Not my last.”

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it. Get outta the car.”

No one orders Dean out of his car, no one unless Sam’s God and as far as Dean knows Sam ain’t God. He’s checked. Sort of. Even then it’d be a fight. 

Sam glares harder, those eyes sharp on Dean like knives and that stubbornness like mountains, suddenly, Dean’s tired, his headache flaring until the haze outside threatens to overtake Sam, so he says, “I am getting out of the car under my own recognizance.”

“Do you even know what that means.”

“You didn’t order me out. I chose to get out.”

He smiles, big with teeth, standing on the shimmering road, hands in his pockets, and there’s no one for miles, he pushes a bit more. “I am _allowing_ you to drive, Sam.”

The look on Sam’s face is pure incredulous bitch and it draws the headache back a bit, Sam coming around the car, a stomping giant with this scowl on his face. “If that’s what you gotta tell yourself, Dean.”

“Them’s the facts.”

Closing his eyes, Sam turns his face to the sky, maybe he’s praying for strength, Dean’s had those moments with his brother before, he’s still not sure how they’ve lived this long without beating the living daylights out of each other. Somehow, they didn’t break their bones enough to stunt their growth. Obviously.

Dean climbs in the shotgun seat and finds the book, open to Sam’s spot as Sam slides in behind the wheel. The window is cool against Dean’s face when he leans against it, breath fogging a little. 

The car gets back on the road and Dean’s not been a passenger in his own car for months now, he’s forgotten the easy lullaby of the road, just sitting back and letting the land go by, the hum of tires and engine. He breathes again and letters form on the window.

He can’t let Sam know, this is his discovery, writing on the window, it’s probably Sam, he doodles like crazy, but Dean can’t let Sam know he’s found it, he knows Sam’s secret, well, he’s always written on the windows like that, since he was little and learning his alphabet, that’s how they practiced, first print then cursive until they got to the next town and bought more paper. _Anyway_ , the point is Dean doesn’t say anything, just breathes nonchalantly. 

The letters rise superimposed in a cloud against the summer haze of Nebraska. 

DEAN

“Wait, what,” he says out loud and Sam says, “What,” and Dean says, “Not what, nothing,” and Sam says, “What, I’m confused,” and Dean says, “Shut up.”

“Uh, did you pass out or something. Are you hallucinating.” 

“ _Never mind, Sam_ , just forget it. Talking to myself.”

Sam huffs, mutters, “Fine, whatever, just you wait, when we get to the next hunt, I’m not letting you _anywhere near_ a gun.”

Dean whines, it slips out before he means it, “Whaaaat, but what’m I supposed to do, Sammy, stand around and wave my arms?”

The little bastard, he makes a big show of thinking, says, “Yeah, pretty much.” 

The only proper response to that is to flip Sam off and Sam rolls his eyes, says, “Yeah, right back atcha,” and Dean says, “C’mon, Sam, you don’t have to drive with both hands on the wheel, you _can_ flip me the bird,” and Sam retorts, mock-horrified, “I could _wreck the car_ , Dean,” so Dean rolls his eyes (and oh, bad move, the world rolls too, he looks out the window at the line of the horizon). 

“Forget it.”

He goes back to breathing on his name DEAN on the window and spots the tops of new letters.

YOU

Aww, Sam’s such a sap. Maybe it’s DEAN, YOU COMPLETE ME. Or DEAN, YOU ARE THE BEST. DEAN, YOU ARE NUMBER ONE. DEAN, YOU ARE THE SEXIEST. 

Something. Dean scrunches his eyes. The glass is so nice and cool against the glare of the road.

He wakes to Sam shaking him, “Dean, dude, oh my God, wake up,” and he does, he wakes up and Sam breathes out, hard, like maybe he was worried.

“Were you worried,” Dean asks carefully, his mouth feels dry, and Sam laughs, more air than laughter. 

“You want Chinese?”

“Hell yes, I want Chinese.”

They’re in a town, Dean’s not sure where, but he is hungry and the headache is a pressing red color at the back of his brain, so he lets it go, just relaxes and breathes.

And remembers the writing on the window.

DEAN  
YOU  
ASSHOLE

“Sammy, you’re such a prick,” he says, laughing a bit because it’s true, he’s an asshole and a terrible big brother, especially when his hand finds Sam’s thigh and Sam says, “What, you love my prick?” and Dean laughs, “You called me an asshole in window writing.”

Sam smiles, big as the sky, says, “Yeah, I did.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

Sam’s hand finds his, calluses on his palm, a knife scar along two of his fingers.

“Nope, them’s the facts. You’re an asshole.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift. :) Title from "Further On Up The Road" by the Man in Black himself.


End file.
